


The Little Death of Zebruh Codakk

by clusband



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Blow Jobs, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Explicit Sexual Content, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Horrible Cunnilingus Techniques, M/M, Quadrant Vacillation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: One backstage pass, one night with your idol.You wonder if every one feels this way right before Marvus Xoloto culls them where they stand.





	The Little Death of Zebruh Codakk

> _Ice cream, pussy, chocolate chip cookie_  
>  _Kitty cat nookie, I'm a rap bitch_  
>  _Look-look-look-lookie I'm a rap bitch_

His voice is still heavy in your ears, his message heavy in your heart, as you catch a glimpse of him backstage for the first time.

His hair is mussed, a dark mass behind him like smoke from a fire. You guess he’s the fire in this analogy, hot and bright and burning unending. His shoulders are slumped as he finds peace backstage, his camera crew slowly dismissing, the majority of his fans either dead or dying in the ditch outside. But not you.

On instinct, his body guards rush to bring you back outside, recognition blending with irritation on their faces, but you have a secret weapon tonight. As you reach into your pocket, they rush towards you even faster. Your heart breaks- to think that anyone would bring out a real weapon to use against your idol! But all you have is a backstage pass, and it stills these hired muscle like a psionic blast through the heart. 

Then, you flex your hand to show that you don’t have just one, but all of the backstage passes for tonight, fanning them out like a hand of cards. They look to you. They look to Marvus. Marvus looks to you and your heart stills.

Though his expression is (you hesitate to say ‘lax,’ knowing that’s a coulrophobic stereotype)... serene, his eyes have culling in them, harder than hailstones and just as cold. Is he still excited, hyped up from the death and destruction of his show? Or does he see your death, at his hands, in the future? Oh, what you wouldn’t give to feel his hands around your throat, just for an instant. Your knees wobble at the thought.

But just as quickly as you catch it, the moment passes.

“Ayy buddy welcome backstage,” he smiles at you, opening his arms wide in welcome. You don’t know what to say, how best to convey the honor you feel just to hear his voice directed at you.

“Thank you,” you say, the words catching in your throat. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for longer than you know.”

He catches you by the shoulder, dragging you with him to his private room. His claws dig subtly into your shirt, although you suppose they would, being as long as they are. You admire the designs painted on his nails- they’re suggestive, a gold base with purple slime dripping down. Maybe it’s more to do with your flush for him, but the design on his nails reminds you of fantasies you have, early in the evening, with your hand in his nook, around his bulge, dripping from the genetic material he produces. Your gut lurches, your thighs tremble.

And you wonder if everyone feels this way before Marvus Xoloto culls them.

* * *

Marvus leans back in his chair as you talk to him, putting his feet up right on your pile of backstage passes.

“I just can’t help but think that you’re the first revolutionary who’s even tried talking about these issues,” he brings out his phone. Is he taking notes? Your heart soars as you continue, coughing a little to get his full attention. Your challenge brings his eyes up to you. You have to make this a good one.

“I _do_ have more than a little experience with the lower castes, you know. I mean, I’m an envoy of allyship here! When rusties need a job, I give them one, free of charge.”

He raises his eyebrow at you, smirking. Here you go, the ideological debate you’ve been dreaming about. You prepare yourself. 

“I mean your lyrics in _Wet_ demonstrate technical ability beyond the capabilities of the common mind. How you talk about how clowns are forced into a niche just like everyone else,” he examines his nails- he must be feeling it, how harsh clown beauty standards are. Your heart lurches in sympathy. “But I just can’t help but think maybe you need a little perspective from the lower castes. You can ask me anything about my life, you know.”

“Yeah cuz you could hear that shizz like dat,” he starts, ignoring your offer. His lazy drawl, oh shoot, you mean his clown accent is like honey in your tea, smooth and warm and soothing. “But I was thinkin a little harder bout dat noise. Like how I’m always working to let my rusty fans up on stage you feel me? Couldn’t be an ally without showin it off a lil, hehe,” he winks at you. Do your ears deceive you, or did just call himself a performative ally? You're exactly on the same wavelength, that’s exactly what people call you. This is the whole reason you became a music critic. You choose not to inform him that every fan that goes on stage with him meets an untimely end, usually at his hands.

You feel so connected to him in this moment you could cry with it. You stare into his eyes. He stares back. His eyes are so clear, so open and honest and drawing you right to him. Even in the unflattering light of his backroom, with his vanity lit up with lights, he’s beautiful. The long, sharp angles of his face. His wide mouth and sharp teeth. The dimples of his cheeks as he smiles. You lean towards him, walking forward as if in a trance. You’ve never wanted to kiss someone like you’ve wanted to kiss him, and the moment is right.

As you approach him, leaning in, he leans back in his chair. You go forward with him until he stops you with his cane sword, unsheathed at your throat. Your blood drains from your face and rushes to your bulge. You can’t move back. Not emotionally, anyway, drawn as you are to him. So when he moves into your space to press his lips to yours, mouthing the words “You’re so fucking annoying, bro,” you can do nothing but inhale his lingering breath, trace your lips over the words with him. 

If it’s a fight he wants, then, despite your heart, you’ll give him your all.

You kiss him with everything you’ve got, harder than ice. It kind of sucks, your teeth clicking against his, your noses pressed uncomfortably together. But he fixes it, your idol fixes everything. He grabs you by the hair gathered on the back of you head and tilts your face, pressing a feather light kiss to your lips. You follow him, looking for more pressure, more of his scent and the weird metallic taste of his face paint. But he pulls away.

“If you want it so bad, then maybe you should take it,” he smiles back up at you, winking once and completely harmless. 

And you do hate him, now. For making you work for it. For taking ideas that you’ve always known and presenting them like he’s the first guy who’s ever thought about it. For never even giving you the time of day, always pushing you away and disregarding you online. You hate him.

Your next kiss is bruising, and it surprises even him with the depth of feeling that it has. His startled exhale is cool against your face, but he recovers quickly. His teeth drag against your lower lip, and you groan as you get a taste of your own blood. His tongue swipes in your mouth, and he sucks the air out of your lungs. He sucks the colors out of your world. His hands come up to the hollow of your throat, grabbing you by the bowtie, and he pulls you into him. You need to pull away to breathe, spots dance at the corners of your vision, but he’s unrelenting, maneuvering you so that you’re sitting where he was. Your bulge chafes against the denim prison of your pants, but the pain only spurs you on.

His mouth trails from the corner of your mouth to your cheek and then down behind your ear, where he nips you. It’s so light as to be a mockery of flush, bringing fire into your veins and heat into your face. He’s mocking you now, the depths of your feelings for him and the confusing ways in which you feel them.

His hands, too, make a mockery of you, so gentle with the buttons of your vest, so reverent as they unclip your bowtie. You can’t take it, your rushing blood heating you up beneath your layers, spreading sweat so uncomfortably against your skin that you could scream with it. And so. You pull your shirt at the buttons and rip them off. He chuckles darkly as he crouches in front of you.

“You want it pretty bad, huh blubro?” He kisses you on your navel before biting there, picking up your skin with his teeth like a predator stripping a carcass. Finally, you do scream. Well, kind of- you’re feeling a little self-conscious about how many people filter through this backstage area, even though you know this room is just for him.

With a burst of courage that can only come from how frustrated you’re feeling, you grab him by the horns and press him into your writhing bulge. It’s a sweet pleasure-pain, the pressure provided by him now mouthing at your bulge so divine that you almost want to pray to his messiahs, the friction of your bulge against your zipper so painful you feel it curl like a stone in your gut. But, for once, Marvus takes mercy on you.

He makes eye contact with you, and you almost want to look away- his face paint is rubbed off at the mouth, and this feels more intimate than you think you can handle, something you would have bitten your own fingers off for the privilege of seeing in a flushed context.

He unbuttons your jeans, smiling benignly up at you. You feel like the heiress, like a messiah, seeing someone so powerful, so awe inspiring, watching you as your bulge undulates from your pants and superimposes itself over his face. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue as his eyes lower at you. You bring your hand near his face, asking for permission, and he glances at it before giving you a slight nod. You pinch his face between one hand, thumb and forefinger putting pressure on his masseter muscles to force him to keep his jaw open, before guiding your bulge into his mouth. 

It’s a sweet bliss- how his tongue forms around your bulge. How his lips seal over it and he sucks slightly. How, when you run out of room in his throat, he relaxes to let you in deep. You have to do everything in your power to keep from coming right there. Some drool drips out of his mouth as you keep his teeth away from the soft flesh of your bulge, tears prick out of the corners of his eyes, but still, he looks smug. Like he knows how badly you’ve been wanting this, and how he’s taking pleasure in twisting your fantasy, hating you instead of letting you into his heart.

But you can twist things, too. As softly as you can, you bring both hands up to the side of his face, wiping the tears from his eyes. With your now ruined shirt, you wipe the drool from his mouth and chin. You give him a sympathetic look, and he pauses.

All at once, you regret taking your hand from his jaw. His teeth close, slowly, around your bulge- not enough to hurt that badly, but enough to keep you from moving, whether it be deeper into his throat or out of his mouth completely. 

A searing pain hits you, your eyes feel like they’re on fire. Your head feels like there’s a rubber band wrapped tight around your skull, and your brain is expanding despite the pressure. It’s a knock at the door, your blueblood psychic resistance pressing hard back against his highblood chucklevoodoos.

You let him in.

_Better take a pic buddy blue cause this is all you’re getting ;)_

You wonder, in a daze, how he conveys the wink emoji through telepathic communication. Your bulge is throbbing, the pressure his teeth provides feels like a vice, keeping the blood pulsing at the top half of your bulge.

Oh fuck, what did he say?? You grab your phone with shaking hands from your back pocket. He’s surprisingly gentle, moving his head with you as you scramble around. You take a picture as quickly as you can, the flash reflecting off of his tapetum lucidum and lighting up his eyes with an otherworldly, sopor green. He scowls around your retreating bulge, his hand insistent around the base to encourage it to withdraw from his mouth. Your bulge throbs with unreleased tension and the pressure from where his teeth held you. This feeling, combined with him in your head, brings you so close to the edge that you have to grip your thighs, gasping, to distract from the feeling of it. 

You look down to the floor where he sits, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him, his hands behind him, holding his torso up in a relaxed sitting position. His face looks so satisfied that you know your hate for him was real. But it’s fading fast.

The thing is, he looks so tired, siting on the floor. His pupils are so contracted (because you accidentally flashed him with your camera, whoops) that you wonder if he can even see you looking down at him. The purple fills his eyes beautifully, rivaling amethyst in their sparkle, and contrasting deeply with the gold of his sclera. His hair falls around his shoulders like vines fall around a fence.

And his mouth is stained blue with your color. A little possessive thrills runs through you. You understand something about him, now that you’ve seen him with your bulge in his mouth. He needs this, to feel like he’s needed. To feel like he’s wanted, worshiped, and divine. Holy. 

You are absolutely not leaving on this note. You know he’s drawing you in again, but you aren’t giving him the power this time. With every ounce of your willpower, you turn from him and sit on his couch. You cross your arms petulantly. You kick him out of your mind. And you sit. And you wait. And maybe you’re drooling a little bit, but you can’t help it. All of the blood from your brain is in your bulge right now. 

He stands up, anger written on his face like he’s going to kick you out with force this time. But you see it coming, and you grab his hand before he can grab your arm. You pull him into you. And you kiss him.

The second press of your lips against his is warm, warm from your feelings, warm with understanding. You pull him into your lap, which feels kind of odd because he’s much taller than you. But he doesn’t pull away, the craving for affection the only thing keeping him here, in your arms.

"I find you irresistible," you tell him with your breath hot against his pulse. "With or without your psychic persuasion. On stage or off. Nothing could keep me from you."

You pull away. You study his face- these are lines from a poem you wrote about him. You wonder if he'd like to hear it one day. But for now, he looks away, embarrassed, or bashful maybe, so you place your hand on his cheek. You brush your hand through his hair. And you love him, looking up at him above you, the vanity behind him lighting him up like a vision. How well you know him, to get him pliant and soft beneath you. Yours is the hand that shapes the clay, or whatever that saying is. You’re pretty sure that’s something someone said to a messiah, in one of those clown stories? It’s totally fitting.

“You find me irresistible?” he asks. Oh shit, he’s mocking you.

You nod, trying to convey truth and honesty as well as you can.

“Then come get some,” he says. He pulls away, still seated in your lap. You run your hands up his shirt in a rush, and he laughs at your enthusiasm. He lets out a moan as you rub the tense muscles in his back, and he exhales sharply as you push your bulge up into him. He’s so wet that you can feel it through his pants. 

“Worship me,” he commands. And you do, kissing him up his belly to his sternum, stopping at the hollow of his throat only because that’s as far as you can reach with him stretched out above you. He presses into you, flexing his back as he grinds his nook into you. You let out every gasp, every moan, performing for him. You hold him in your arms. Then you pull his pants down with little fanfare.

He gasps again as his bulge hits the air- even here, he looks cold, his bulge folding in on itself as it searches for something warm. You should have thought to turn the AC off. You bring the fingers of your left hand to his nook, running them along his folds and delighting at how wet he his, how painfully swollen his nook feels. Was he really going to let you just leave with his nook so unsatisfied like this? He must really… feel strongly about you.

You shove two of your fingers into him, fucking him with everything you’ve got. You kiss along his chest, the muscles of his arms. You nuzzle your face between his pecs. You savor every gasp and moan he makes for you -he's noisy- nowing that you’ll never be able to tune out his breaths between verses again. Not without thinking of him like this. He sways above you like a tree in a storm, tense and tight and clenching his nook so tight around your fingers you wonder if your next stop should be to the hospital.

When he comes, he drapes himself boneless against you, clutching your head to his shoulder. You relish in the feeling of his nook pulsing around you as you nip at him lightly. You bulge throbs with wanting, pulsing in time with the orgasm ripping through him. You are almost uncomfortably covered in your own slick and his cum. 

He pulls away, laughing a little in relief. Is that a clown thing? Is it castest to think it’s cute? You decide that it’s not.

With him all wobbly and easy with post orgasm bliss, you flip your positions. You admire him, lying on the couch beneath you, and almost come right there. He's covered in sweat, his body long and languid. His smile comes easy to him as he dissolves comfortably down into the couch beneath you.

You decide that you want more, more of his nook and more of his taste and his scent. You trail your hands down his sides, kissing down his sternum and his belly. You briefly consider blowing raspberries on his belly, but you decide against it when one of his legs hooks beneath your arm somehow to pull you down.

Once you get a face-full of his nook, you pause. He’s so, so beautiful, his nook flushed purple and his inner lips spilling out of him like a flower in bloom. There’s nothing you want more than to just… stick your face right in there. You put your hands on the backs of his thighs and push his legs up. And you keep pushing them up, meeting no resistance, until his legs are framing his torso. Wow, he’s flexible.

You have to admit, with the first drag of your tongue against his nook, that you have no idea what you’re doing here. You try just… licking up and down? You don’t get much of a reaction. You kiss him here like you kissed his mouth earlier, which he seems to like, if the twisting of his hips and gasps are any indication. It’s a little difficult to catch your breath down here, and it doesn’t help that he’s left you breathless anyway. You can’t tell if it’s hot or embarrassing to hear your breath stuttering and gasping along with the sucking noises you’re making against his nook. You decide to go in harder and you’re rewarded with a hiss as his foot comes to your forehead to push you away.

“You suck at that for real,” he says, indignant. “Just give me ya bulge then GTFO, aight?”

He says the letters GTFO out loud. With this, he lays back down, his hands behind his head, expecting you to do all the work. You suspect this is what people mean when they call someone a ‘pillow princess.’ But you aren’t complaining.

You pull yourself up above him again, then you sink your bulge slowly into him. His expression turns from annoyance to a facsimile of relief again, so you fuck him harder. 

"You like that?" You nod. "Naughty boy, I bet you dream about me like this."

"I do," you tell him. "But the real thing is, hng, so much better."

"Hehe it would be better if I could come again, bet you'd like my nook nice and cozy tight around you b," you nod, the power of speech for once in your life beyond you.

He looks up at you expectantly, but all you can do is rut harder into him, his nook so tight that it feels like it’s pulling you into him with every thrust.

With an irritated ‘tch, take a hint, man,’ Marvus brings his hands between you and plays with his bulge. It’s almost fascinating, how dexterous he is, letting it run through his fingers like one of those worm on a string magic tricks for grubs. Kind of bizarre, actually, but you just continue to fuck him. His nook feels amazing, now, as he fucks his own bulge to his second orgasm. You kiss him beneath his jaw, mouthing at the lobe of his ear, before pulling out and coming all over his stomach. You place your hands over his as you snuggle up next to him, helping him jerk himself off, and he sort of allows it, though your fingers are stiffer and rougher than his.

You decide to help him along by burying your fingers in his nook again. He seemed to like that the first time. You rub your thumb around his pleasure nub, listening to him moan and gasp for you some more. It's so musical and lovely you could fall asleep to it.

He does finally cum a second time, arching off the couch and shouting out in pleasure as his genetic material joins yours. The color on his stomach is neither blue nor purple. You guess this is the color people mean when they say ‘indigo.’ Maybe.

He’s up quick- you sort of see the suggestion that he’s wiping off your combined genetic material into a bucket with his back turned to you. You just continue to relax on your back. He cleans you up with a cloth- that’s very nice of him- before shoving your clothes at you. 

Believe it or not, you can take a hint. 

You get dressed slowly watching him fix himself up in the mirror. He’s quick with his face paint, although he just brushes and ties his hair back. You guess that his hair takes a lot of maintenance. Your shirt is ruined, so you just wear your jeans and vest, shoving the bowtie into your pocket. 

And, despite your wildest hopes and dreams, he comes back over to you. He looks ten times as tired as before, although a little less stressed. You smile up at him as he straightens out your vest, pulls up your jeans and tightens your belt buckle by one hole. Damn, you thought clowns liked the low rider look. That’s what it’s called, right?

He moves into your face, his breath washing over you. You close your eyes, but he doesn’t kiss you, whispering something against your lips again.

“Better skeet skoot, beat box, before people get the wrong idea,” you don’t understand why he’s calling you beat box until he mocks you, mimicking your gasping, rhythmically, against his nook. You look up at him, doing your best to suppress a blush. Laughter is bright in his eyes as he pushes you forward by the hips, his face so tantalizingly close but just out of reach. You’d do anything for one more kiss, one more feeling of his cool skin against yours.

But the door that slams in your face is even colder than that.


End file.
